Say My Name (17 page)

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to cry. Wanting to cry.

And not being able to manage even one fucking tear.

Not even that
, I think. Even that one small thing—the release of tears—and I can’t manage it.

“He’s locked me up tight,” I say, opening my eyes and meeting hers. “A chain. I want a chain.”

“No.”
Her face is as fierce as her voice. “No, don’t you dare look at it that way. You
could
let it go. But the resort means a lot to you. And so you’re using him. You,” she repeats, pressing her fingertip against my shoulder. “
You
are using
him.
Using him to get what you want.”

“The resort,” I say. “I want the resort. And I’m taking steps.”

“Fuck yeah, you are. Just like you took the idea to Stark in the first place. You’re doing what you need to do to get the job done.
Your
job.”

“Yeah,” I say, liking the way she thinks. “But my job is going to keep me pretty much attached to Jackson’s hip. Tonight,” I say. “And then tomorrow, too.”

Her brows lift. “Expecting an all-nighter, are you?”

I lick my lips. “Considering Jackson’s terms, don’t you think I should be?”

She winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. And that wasn’t what I meant anyway.” I pause for dramatic effect. “We’re having after-lunch cocktails with Nikki and Damien tomorrow afternoon. At their house. In Malibu.”

“Seriously?”

“Nikki called as I was driving over. She’d already asked Jackson. Just casual food and drinks, she said. A welcome to the project thing. And it’s exactly what I should have expected, because that’s the nature of this job. I’m the project manager and our schedule is tight. We’re going to be working together pretty intimately.” I exhale, because the truth is that when I factor in Jackson’s ultimatum, there aren’t going to be many moments between now and the completion of the project when I’m not right there at Jackson’s side.

“Attached at the hip,” I repeat. “So I really want that chain.”

“No way, Syl.”

“Dammit, Cass,” I begin, because she knows me. She knows I need this.

But before I can get on a roll, she holds up a hand. “You need to own it, babe. Like I said, you’re the one using him. Your resort. Your project. So I won’t give you a chain. But I will give you a flame.”

“A flame?”

The smile that blooms on her face is just a little bit crooked. “Out of the frying pan, babe,” she says.

I laugh. I can’t help it. “And into the fire?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

I draw in a breath, then nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I think I can live with that.”

In the end, Cass and I blow off both the drinks and the shopping. I can only mix so much Jackson and alcohol and still feel safe. And although I could use a costume to hide behind, right now, I figure I can always rely on the tiny but brilliant flame that now flickers at the side of my left breast.

So when Zee called Cass and invited her over to spend the evening watching television on the couch, I didn’t mind the parting.

Now, it’s not even six and I’m already home, and as I ride the elevator up to my third-floor condo, I’m glad of the extra time. Jackson said he’d arrive by eight. That gives me two hours to chill. And to maybe, hopefully, find some peace with my decision.

I tap my code onto the keypad, hear the familiar whirr of the locks, and then push the door open. Despite the mountains of moving boxes that mar the landscape of my living room, my mood immediately shifts for the better. The condo is tiny but it’s all mine. Well, mine and the bank’s.

Damien had given me a bonus along with the project manager position, and I’d taken the leap and dived head-first into the wonderful and wacky world of home ownership. Now I own seven hundred square feet above retail space on Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade. And while the access to shopping is definitely a perk¸ the best part is the view.

The entire back wall works like a garage door. Down, it is a wall of glass panels that provide a view. Rolled up, it provides more living space by opening onto a balcony that looks out over the streets and the ocean beyond. And, of course, a really great breeze.

I press the button beside the front door and grin like an idiot as the mechanism kicks into gear and my back wall begins to roll up.

After that, though, I just stand there, a little at loose ends.

Jackson.

He’s going to be here in only two short hours. And, yes, I may be armed with my plan to use him before he can use me—to treat him just like one of the guys whose initials now mark my body—but that doesn’t change the fact that in the end, he’ll have his hands on me. His mouth on me.

And oh, dear God, his cock inside me.

And the sick, horrible truth?

Despite the fact that he’s forced my hand and tricked his way into my bed, I cannot deny that I want him there. And I hate myself just a little for that.

My phone rings, and I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m even more grateful when I check the caller ID and see that it’s Jamie.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m calling to tell you I sent you an Evite,” she says.

“You’re calling me to tell me you sent an email?” That’s undeniably weird, but not entirely surprising. I met Jamie Archer through Nikki and liked her immediately. She says what she thinks and doesn’t mince words and as far as friendship goes, she’s as loyal as they come. She’s also a lot of fun during happy hour.

“I want to make sure it didn’t go to spam. It’s an invitation to my Halloween party. Three weeks,” she says. “That gives you tons of time to find the perfect costume.”

“Sounds like fun,” I say, meaning it.

“Totally. It’ll be my first party in the condo. Well, since I’ve been back in the condo,” she amends. She’d rented her place when she returned temporarily to Texas to live with her parents. But she’s back now, doing the struggling-actress thing and happily dating Ryan Hunter, Stark International’s security chief.

“So you’re all settled back in?”

“Oh, yeah. I let my tenant have the place furnished and with all the kitchen stuff and linens. So when he moved out and I moved back, it was sort of like going on a backward vacation. Totally easy.”

I glance around at my stacks of poorly labeled boxes and grimace. “I think I hate you right now.”

“Need help?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’ll get it done.”

“Good, because I’m not doing anything today except lounging in bed naked and sending Evites.”

“Is Ryan with you?” I ask.

“Indeed he is.”

“Then I’m betting you’re doing more than lounging.”

“See, this is why you work for a guy like Damien. You’re so damn smart. Speaking of, I saw the pics of you from the premiere. Very cool.”

“The ones in the paper?”

“You rocked your outfit,” she says. “And how very stealthy of you.”

“Stealthy?”

“Nikki told me about the whole architect snafu. And how you ended up going to the premiere to meet with Jackson Steele. And persuade him …” She adds the last with a suggestive lilt.

“Is that what Nikki told you?” I ask, all the more mortified that she’d landed scarily close to the truth.

“The persuade part,” Jamie says. “I added the va-voom part myself. Makes a better story.”

I roll my eyes.

“Anyway, I think this Jackson dude is a way better choice than Martin Glau.”

I laugh. “Jamie, you don’t know shit about architecture.”

“True. But I know Glau is pushing sixty, is as round as Hitchcock, and actually has jowls.
Jowls.
And Steele’s all over the internet this morning, and he is hot. But I guess Irena Kent wouldn’t cozy up to someone who’s a schlub.”

“Who?”

“Jackson Steele.”

“No, the woman. Did you say Irena Kent? The actress?”

“Yeah.”

I frown. That’s why the brunette on Jackson’s arm had looked so familiar. I remember the way they’d looked last night, and the way seeing their picture in the paper had felt like a knife twist.

I tell myself I’m not going to ask—and then of course I do exactly that. “What do you mean she’s cozying up to him?”

“Rumor is they’re dating,” Jamie says, and considering she’s dipped her toe repeatedly in the Hollywood pool, I figure she would know.

“Like, serious dating?” I cringe the second the words leave my mouth. I am not with Jackson—our absurd arrangement notwithstanding—and I do not intend to be with Jackson in the future. So who he fucks is no business of mine.

“I don’t think so,” Jamie says, and I am uncomfortably but undeniably relieved. “To be honest, I think she wants the female lead in that movie they’re doing about that Santa Fe house he built. You know, the one that had all the gossip after the family moved in. Sex and murder and suicide.”

“I know the stories,” I say. “And I knew that Hollywood’s been buzzing about doing a feature film that centers on Jackson. But I didn’t know it was about that house.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure why it would be. The whole murder-suicide stuff happened after the project was wrapped and Jackson was off to conquer the next mountain of stone and steel. “How the hell could I not have heard that?”

“Why would you?” Jamie asks, which is a good question considering she doesn’t know that I have followed every bit of Jackson Steele trivia over the last five years.

“I don’t think it’s public knowledge,” she continues. “I know a guy who knows a guy who did a rewrite on the script. I think they’re keeping it pretty close to the vest. I guess Jackson’s not thrilled. My friend says he’s the reason the woman went ape shit.”

“The woman?” Jamie has completely lost me.

“In the story. The woman who murdered her sister and then killed herself. It was because of Jackson. At least in the script, anyway. Not sure about real life.”

I realize I have tightened my grip on my phone to the point that it is painful. “Oh my god,” I say, because I can think of nothing else. “Is it true? I mean, what does that mean, ‘because of Jackson’?”

“Not a clue. But there’s another rumor that he beat the shit out of the first screenwriter. Also unconfirmed,” she says, and I can’t help but think about Jackson’s temper. About the cut across his face and the way his knuckles looked so raw today.

“But what I can confirm,” Jamie continues, “is that he doesn’t want the movie made at all.
That
I know is true because one of Ollie’s law school buddies represents him.”

Ollie is the attorney that I’m hoping to hook Cass up with for her franchise questions. He’s also a friend of Jamie’s. I have no idea who Jackson uses as legal counsel, but I have no reason to doubt Jamie’s intel. As far as gossip goes, Jamie is part bloodhound.

“It sounds like a huge mess,” I say, because at the moment, that’s the only take-away I have.

“Oh, a complete clusterfuck,” Jamie says cheerily. “Anyway, I’ve done my duty and delivered your daily dose of gossip. Now I’ve got to send out a million more Evites and make a million more follow-up calls. I have no idea how we’re gonna fit all these people in my condo, but I’m going to make it work. You’re coming, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Awesome. Later! Ta!”

I’m not sure how long I stand there with my head full of Jackson, my mind spinning in a freakish mix of desire and question, angst and anticipation. But there is no way I’m obsessing over this for another hour, much less another minute. Instead, I grab a knife from the kitchen, then slice open the tape on one of the boxes sitting on my coffee table.

Since I’d been in a hurry to move, I hadn’t taken the time to label anything that wasn’t a necessity like clothes and pantry items. That has made unpacking both frustrating and exciting, because I never know when I might be about to open a treasure trove.

In this box, I find my photographs.

Dozens and dozens of prints in every size, ranging from eight by tens all the way down to three by fives. I pull a few out and feel a little karmic tingle. Because they’re images of the Winn Building in New York. The soaring testament that Jackson built in Manhattan, and that I’d made a pilgrimage to see last summer.

I’d been traveling for business, going with Damien to meet with a number of his East Coast executives. I hadn’t yet seen the Winn Building, although I’d read everything I could get my hands on about it. I’d told Damien I was going to the museum one afternoon—I’m not sure why I lied—and I’d gone to the financial district instead. I’d stood across the street, my head tilted back, and I’d simply let myself go with the pleasure of those clean, perfect lines reaching up to the heavens and a sky as blue as the eyes I remembered so well.

And, yes, in some small way standing there in the shadow of what Jackson built was a bit like standing by the man himself.

I’d taken dozens of pictures, but as I look at them now, I can see that none comes close to capturing what in my memory is so raw and so vivid. I toss them back into the box, my dissatisfaction with the images reminding me that I need to reschedule with Wyatt and Nikki.

Before I can give Wyatt a call, though, my intercom buzzes. I’m not even close to ready for tonight, and I jump a little, only to sag in relief when a guy’s voice announces, “Got a delivery for Sylvia Brooks.”

I buzz him up, and a messenger in jeans, an oversized sweatshirt, and slanted baseball cap with the service logo bounces out of the elevator about the same time I open the door. He passes me a box wrapped in plain white paper and topped with a bright red bow.

Under the bow is a tag—and the tag says,
Wear Me.

Despite myself, I smile. But when I open the box and peel open the tissue paper, my smile fades. The dress is red, but that doesn’t matter. Because it’s the dress.
My
dress. The exact same style as the yellow dress with the white buttons that he’d given me in Atlanta. I lift my hand to my mouth and make a small mewling sound as my knees go weak.

I’m standing by my kitchen table, and now I clutch the back of a chair, steadying myself, because I am certain this will shatter me.

And that, I realize, is exactly what he’s trying to do. This is about revenge, after all. About Jackson getting payback for what happened in Atlanta.